,,ggddY""""Ybbgg,, ,agd""' `""bg, T H E N E O - C O M I N T E R N ,gdP" "Ybg, ,dP" ""` ,dP" _,,ddP"""Ybb,,_ .s*""*s .s*"*s. ,8" .+$ '""' `"Yb, .P' $ `.d' `b ,8' .+$$$$ssss+. sssss "'d' .sssP d' `b db. ,8' .+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$+. $$$$$ d' ,P' d' s*s $ d' `b d.+$$$$$$$$$$$$$$`*$$$$+.$$$$$$$$$ $ :$ d'.P .Pd' $ _ 8`*$$$$$$$$$$$$$$ o`*$$$$$$$$ T. `b. :$ TsP .Pd' $ .+P"*+. 8 `*$$$$$$$$$$$ OOb.`*$$$$$ T. `^**sT. .Pd' . $ .+P' :P 8 `*$$$$ YOOOObooi `b. $ T. .P'd' .P $P' .P' 8 `*$ "OQQQO" `TsggsP `TssP' d' .PT. . .P' Y, i. aP ,P d .P :$b+.d' .P' `8, "Ya aP" ,8' d; .P .d' .P' `8, "Yb,_ _,dP" ,8' `*TP .d' .P' `8a `""YbbgggddP""' a8' d; .P' `Yba adP' `*TP' "Yba adY" `"Yba, ,adP"' `"Y8ba, ,ad8P"' E L E C T R O N I C M A G A Z I N E ``""YYbaaadPP""'' .-. t h e l i t e r a r y m o l o t o v c o c k t a i l .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' I N S T A L L M E N T N U M B E R 2 6 8 `-' J A N U A R Y 1 8 , 2 0 0 4 B M C , E D I T O R - I N - C H I E F FEATURED IN THIS INSTALLMENT: Porcelain - Walter _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ EDITOR'S KNOWTE Welcome to your doom. It is time for a tantalizing tale of murder, mystery, and intrigue. This story is not for the weak of heart. Please consult your doctor before you embark on this voyage through the depths of the human soul. What evil lurks within the hearts of men? Only the shadow knows, and he ain't telling nobody. So read up. _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " _/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"-._/"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_.-"\_ Porcelain by Walter _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ \"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._\"-._ _.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/_.-"/ " " " " " " " """"" " " " " " " " Mordicai spots a dead sparrow while he squats in his vegetable garden, weeding a long row of carrots. His heart pounds at the sight of the plump bird, lying stiff in the dirt, face up, little legs and feet poking straight out of its soft feathers. He pokes at it quickly with his forefinger, not yet wanting to touch the bird even though he is wearing thick gardening gloves. The bird tips over, beak now facing the ground. Mordicai pokes at the bird again, then picks it up and carries it to the edge of the garden, where he gently places it on the grass. He finishes weeding in the carrot row and moves on to the row of various lettuces. When he finishes the row (he weeds two rows a day, never allowing the weeds a chance to root and crowd his vegetables) he walks over to the sparrow, picks it up in his large gloved hands and takes it inside the house. Mordicai places the bird in the kitchen sink and fills the sink with warm sudsy water. With hands gloved in thin latex he washes the bird from top to bottom, feeling every groove and depression of its stiff little body. * * * Mordicai inherited millions when his grandfather passed away. Both of his parents are dead and he has no siblings; there was nowhere else for the money to go. He had not been close to his grandfather, barely knew him actually, having met the man only twice, and briefly. Even before the inheritance, though, Mordicai had done well as a potter. His work is highly sought after in Europe for its elegant line and form. A bowl could be a flower, a jellyfish, a cat in repose. Mordicai creates a pitcher more like a singing bird than a receptacle for water. His pottery looks alive, ready to jump, bite, fly or purr. * * * Mordicai slams the large mound of porcelain onto the middle of the wheel, securing it to the machine. His large body sits crouched over the wheel, elbows on his thighs. He squeezes his thighs together, pushing into the clay with his hands as the wheel spins around. He makes a hole at the top of the porcelain mound with two fingers, quickly drawing the spinning clay to the side. He deftly pulls the smooth clay upwards creating a perfect cylindrical shape. The clay sticking to the tops of his hands and forearms begins to dry, making his skin itch and pulling on the hairs. Beginning at the base of the cylinder, Mordicai uses the forefingers of each hand, and slowly and steadily pulls the clay upward. Beautiful, he murmurs at the perfect sleekness of the clay. Mordicai bought a new house with his inheritance money, on the edge of the city where there are few other houses, mostly fields. He had replaced the walls with windows to obtain natural light, divided the room in half, and had a potting studio built on one side. A large brick kiln, 8' x 10', inhabits one corner of the studio and the rest of the wall space is covered with shelving for drying the clay to varying stages. Mordicai has two wheels--one foot wheel and one motorized, a large bisque, a long table to hold his numerous glazes, and another table for wedging and sculpting clay. A movement outside the window captures his attention. Dirt flies high and far as a golden retriever pulls up and eats carrots from his garden, inadvertently stomping on the lettuce. Mordicai trembles with rage, toppling the tall slender porcelain piece. He runs outside throwing the wet clay at the dog who barks, wags, attempts to shake off the white porcelain and runs back home next door. While washing the clay from his hands, still enraged, Mordicai tries to decide if he should first fix the garden or clean the wheel. The room is always spotless for a potter's studio--no splots of clay stick to the concrete floor, brick walls, and windows, no glaze drips spot the floor. After work, everyday, Mordicai wipes each spot on the walls and washes the smooth concrete floor on his hands and knees. * * * At the grocery store he buys bread, milk, fruit, vegetables, antifreeze, garbage bags, dog biscuits, pine sol and sponges. Mordicai checks his empty mailbox, walks inside, checks his answering machine and says, "Nobody writes, nobody calls." He laughs. * * * The sound of the doorbell makes Mordicai jump. Who could it be? Why would anyone disturb him? He briefly debates ignoring the bell, but decides he ought to answer it. His lights are on, it's obvious he's home. A young man stands on the front porch, smiling. "Hello," he says, holding out his right hand. "I'm Dan. I live next door." At the blank stare, he laughs and continues, "That was my dog today who dug up your garden. Sorry about that." Stiffly, Mordicai shakes his hand. "Oh, oh that's your dog? Please keep him out of my garden. I work very hard at my vegetables." "Sure, sorry, sometimes he just gets loose. He's a smart dog, I think he can get the latch on the gate." The two men stand staring at each other in the front entrance. "I recently moved in," Dan says. "Just a couple of months ago. I hardly ever see you out and about and wanted to introduce myself. Charlie gave me the opportunity today." He smiles. Mordicai sighs. "Would you like to come in?" "Love to." Dan steps inside the spacious house. Mordicai leads Dan into the sparsely furnished living room. Other than a couch, chair, and coffee table, only cabinets containing Mordicai's collection and a few sculpted animals occupy the room. "Wow, this is nice. Big. Much bigger than mine. Do you ever have a lot of windows." Mordicai gestures to the couch, "Please, sit down." Dan sits on the brown leather couch and Mordicai sits across from him on the matching leather chair. "Have you got anything to drink?" Dan asks. "Would you like some water?" "I was thinking of something with a bit more punch. Some scotch maybe, or some sherry?" "No. I don't keep liquor. I don't drink, I never have." Dan points to the large cabinet against the wall, saying, "But you have whole cabinets of snifters and wineglasses. . . ." "Yes. I collect the glassware. But not the liquor. The goblets, particularly, are beautiful. Some date to the 18th century." Dan gets up to inspect the collection, picking up a goblet and looking at the bottom of it. Mordicai closely follows him, hands held ready to catch a fumbled glass. "Please don't touch them. I don't touch them myself except to dust them and even then only with a feather duster." "Oh. Sorry," Dan says, embarrassed. He notices the cougar next to the shelf. "My god! Is that real? I thought that was a statue." "It's real, better than real. My grandfather was a taxidermist. He lived in Africa. Each birthday he would send me a different animal." Mordicai gently traces the back of the cougar with his forefinger. "Notice the line of his shoulder, as though he's ready to pounce. Stunning work." "Yes. Stunning. It's getting late. I should be going. It's been interesting meeting you, Mordicai." Dan takes one of Mordicai's hands and shakes it. "Good night." After Dan leaves, Mordicai vacuums the couch where Dan had been sitting. He sprays the leather with cleaning solution then wipes the couch dry. * * * With a long pair of tongs, Mordicai dips a hard, bone-shaped biscuit into a bowl of antifreeze, holds the biscuit in the solution for five seconds and places it on a baking sheet. He does this three more times with three more bones then leaves the sheet of biscuits to dry in a sunbeam on the counter. * * * From his yard, Mordicai watches Dan leave for work in the morning. He waits fifteen minutes then walks to the house next door. As Mordicai approaches the fence, Charlie bounds up to the gate, tail wagging, and barking. "Hey boy," he says softly, "Hey little fella. You're a good boy, aren't you, yes, you're a sweet little boy. You want a biscuit?" Charlie sniffs at the biscuit eagerly and sits politely. Mordicai opens the gate and Charlie comes out and sits in front of him, on his best behavior to get the biscuit. "Here you go, boy." Mordicai offers Charlie the bone, then another and another. "Come on boy, come to my house, follow me, and you'll get the last bone." The dog follows Mordicai, through his back gate into the yard lined by tall poplars. Mordicai gives him the last bone. "Good boy, eat it all up, that's a good boy." Charlie begins to drool. Long strings of saliva leak from the corners of his mouth and form puddles on the cement. His eyes begin to fog over. "That's right boy, that's a good boy." Charlie sways, sits, then slumps to the ground. Mordicai goes into the house and gets a bucket of warm soapy water and a facecloth. He slips on a pair of thin latex gloves, his heart pounding, he's excited, alive. Back in the yard, Mordicai closes his eyes and washes the dog, feeling the frame of its body beneath the hair: the length of his muzzle and legs, the thickness of his chest, the breadth and shape of its tail. He runs his hands down his back and over his stomach. He pets his ears. When he knows the shape and feel of the dog, he lifts it into his arms and carries it inside the house, inside the studio, then once inside the kiln, he places the wet dog body in the middle of the floor and seals the door behind him as he leaves. Mordicai tunes the radio in to CBC and ties a denim apron around his thick waist. He heaves a large white rectangle of clay onto the wedging table. Slowly and methodically, beginning with its head, Mordicai reshapes from memory the dog's body in porcelain, petting the clay as he had pet the dog earlier, wetting his hands with warm water to move the clay more freely. * * * At dusk, Mordicai stands watering his garden. He can hear Dan calling, "Charlie, Chaaaaarrlieeeeeeee." Dan's head appears above the fence between two trees. He asks breathlessly, "Mordicai, you didn't happen to see Charlie, did you? He's missing and I can't find him. I've been looking for him for all evening." Dan's voice is slightly frantic, he looks sad. He walks into his neighbor's yard and sits on a folding chair. "Yes, as a matter of fact I did see him, I did. He was walking toward that field right there. Sometime after noon." Mordicai points to the field directly across the road. "Hmm, maybe he's just out chasing rabbits then and I'm worried for nothing. The gate was open. I knew I should have changed that latch. He's got out before but he's always come back. I'm just worried that with the move he won't be able to find his way home again." Mordicai steps twice to the left aiming the hose at another patch of garden. "I'm sure he'll return when he's hungry. It must be nice for him to run all day in the field. Free." Dan watches Mordicai. His every move seems pre-planned, each word deliberate. He's graceful for a large man, an old man. Each movement slow and efficient, no wasted motions or gestures. Dan looks around the yard, at the trees and shrubs and grass; everything is green except the colored vegetables growing in the garden and the white ceramic animals tucked in yard nooks and in the trees. Dan always favored real creatures in a garden over fake ones. He never understood why someone would prefer an ornamental bird to a real one. What do you expect, he supposed, from the grandson of a taxidermist. "Would you like a drink?" "Water?" Dan laughs. "No thank you." "I have brandy." "I thought you didn't keep liquor in the house." "I don't usually, but I bought a bottle for visitors. I thought it was rude my having nothing to offer you the other day." "Brandy, then. Sounds great. It'll help me relax." "It's cherry. Old. Come inside." The two men enter the house through the sliding doors that lead directly into the studio and into the living room. "Whew. It's hot in here, like a furnace," Dan says, taking off his jacket and unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt. "I've had the kiln running to fire a batch of pottery," Mordicai says, going to the kitchen. Dan swipes his brow with his sleeve. "Good Lord! How can you stand this heat?" "I'm used to it," he calls from the kitchen, then returns with a brandy for Dan and a glass of water for himself. Dan watches Mordicai drink his glass of water. The man isn't even sweating, while the wet heavy air in the home stifles him. Condensation forms on his glass. He finishes the rest of his brandy in one swallow. "I hate to be un-neighbourly," Dan says rising, "but I'm about to pass out in this heat. If you see Charlie, let me know." "Sure. Certainly. I'm sorry." "Why? It's not your fault." "No, it's not. But nonetheless. I am sorry. I'm sure he'll turn up soon." "Let's hope so. Hey, I'm having a dinner party Saturday night. You're welcome to come, of course. You should come." "I rarely go to parties. But thank you." * * * Mordicai opens the kiln. He picks up a vase shaped as a raven. The canine's ashes had flown during the firing, circled the space, sprinkled itself over the firing pots, embedded itself in the glaze. Mordicai studies the raven. The ash adds a pleasing, subtle texture to the sculpted feathers of the bird. After emptying the kiln of its aesthetic creatures, Mordicai sweeps the kiln floor, collecting the ash in an urn. Later, he empties the urn slowly, sprinkling the ash up and down the rows in his garden. "Ashes to ashes," he says. Then laughs at his foolishness. * * * Dan enters Mordicai's yard Saturday morning, a cup of coffee in hand, and finds Mordicai weeding the garden. "Good morning, Mordicai. Nice day. I've come to tempt you to the party tonight with the dinner menu. I don't mind bragging-I'm an excellent cook." "I don't think I'll be coming, but thank you. I have a lot of work to do." "Oh, you can take just one evening off now and then. You might enjoy the company, and I'll be serving . . ." Through the window Dan sees a white porcelain retriever, sitting happily on the wedging table, looking up expectantly as though waiting for a morsel of food. "Charlie? Is that Charlie?" "That's merely a sculpture of the dog. It's a good likeness though." "When did you do that? How did you do that?" Dan enters the studio to get a closer look. He stares at the white porcelain dog, its shaggy lines of fur, alert ears, its mouth partially open and its tongue hanging out one side. He touches the dog's tail. "This is Charlie. This is his tail--it has this exact kink in this exact spot where it got slammed in the car door." Dan looks around then calls through the house, "Charlie, come here little buddy." "Your dog isn't in there," Mordicai says. "What have you done with him? Or what have you done to him? That's him, I know that's him. You think I wouldn't recognize my own dog?" "That's not your dog, Dan," Mordicai says. "That's my dog. I simply used your Charlie as a model." "I'm taking this dog as evidence. Something's not right here." Dan wrestles with the heavy statue, tries to lift it off the table. "I know you've done something with Charlie." Just as Dan raises the dog, Mordicai circles his garden-gloved hands around Dan's neck. His large hands fit easily, as though it were the neck of a young child. Mordicai squeezes. Dan drops the dog. It wobbles then topples off the table, shattering on the cement floor. Mordicai whimpers, and lunges once more at Dan. Dan grabs a sharp piece of sculpture and jabs at Mordicai, slicing across his right cheek. Mordicai hugs Dan, pinning his arms to his body and pushing him up against a window. With one large hand, Mordicai pushes on Dan's neck, releases, forcefully punches his neck, grasps it with both hands. Pushing with one hand and pulling with the other, Mordicai snaps his neck. Mordicai quickly rinses his bloody cheek at the studio sink, then takes a dustpan and broom to sweep up the debris of his canine creation. * * * Humming along with the radio, Mordicai studies the dead man on his floor. He pulls off the man's socks and looks at his feet. Blue sock lint peeps out from between the smallest toes. Mordicai removes the lint and peers between each toe on both feet, clearing out any lint and dry skin and dirt from between them. He undresses the man, neatly folding his clothes in a pile beside him. He opens the man's eyes, staring into them. They stare back blankly in return. Mordicai scrutinizes the man's physique, each curve, fold, depression and wrinkle. With a facecloth and warm soapy water, he gently washes the carcass top to bottom front and back before closing the man's eyes again. Mordicai drags the man's body into the middle of the kiln. He places the folded clothes, gardening gloves, and facecloth onto the man's stomach. He wheels in the small shelves of glazed, bisqued pottery to circle the man. One shelf at the feet, one at the toes and two more shelves of goblets, vases, plates, bowls, the sculpted statues of a small robin and a pregnant cat encircle the man. Mordicai leaves the kiln, closing the door securely behind him. He sets the kiln's thermostat to rise slowly to 600 degrees Celsius for twelve hours then to rise slowly again to 1500 degrees for another twelve hours. * * * The guests begin to arrive at Dan's house at 8:00 PM. Mordicai watches them from behind his curtained window. Some carry bottles of wine. They ring the doorbell then try knocking. They test the doors and the windows for possible entry, but they are locked. Mordicai locked them. The ones with cell phones try calling. More guests gather, they discuss, they wave their arms. Perplexed, they shake their heads and shrug their shoulders. Mordicai watches them as they leave, one by one. .-. .-. / \ .-. .-. / \ / \ / \ .-. _ .-. / \ / \ `-------\-------/-----\-----/---\---/-\---/---\-----/-----\-------/-------' \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / \ / \ / `-' `-' \ / `-' `-' The Neo-Comintern Magazine / Online Magazine is seeking submissions. Unpublished stories and articles of an unusual, experimental, or anti-capitalist nature are wanted. Contributors are encouraged to submit works incorporating any or all of the following: Musings, Delvings into Philosophy, Flights of Fancy, Freefall Selections, and Tales of General Mirth. The more creative and astray from the norm, the better. For examples of typical Neo-Comintern writing, see our website at . Submissions of 25-4000 words are wanted; the average article length is approximately 200-1000 words. Send submissions via email attachment to , or through ICQ to #29981964. Contributors will receive copies of the most recent print issue of The Neo-Comintern; works of any length and type will be considered for publication in The Neo-Comintern Online Magazine and/or The Neo-Comintern Magazine. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' ___________________________________________________ | THE COMINTERN IS AVAILABLE ON THE FOLLOWING BBSES | |~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~| | TWILIGHT ZONE (905) 432-7667 | | BRING ON THE NIGHT (306) 373-4218 | | CLUB PARADISE (306) 978-2542 | | THE GATEWAY THROUGH TIME (306) 373-9778 | |___________________________________________________| | Website at: http://www.neo-comintern.com | | Questions? Comments? Submissions? | | Email BMC at bmc@neo-comintern.com | |___________________________________________________| | The Current Text Scene : http://www.textscene.com | |___________________________________________________| .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .-. .--/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\---/---\--. `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' `-' copyright 2004 by #268-01/18/04 the neo-comintern All content is property of The Neo-Comintern. You may redistribute this document, although no fee can be charged and the content must not be altered or modified in any way. Unauthorized use of any part of this document is prohibited. All rights reserved. Made in Canada. By Canadians. And a couple Others.